


Bah Jeanbug

by TheSparksofMagic



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Gift Fic, Jean is part of the anti-Christmas brigade, M/M, Minor Sasha Blouse/Connie Springer, trans!Connie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5505749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSparksofMagic/pseuds/TheSparksofMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean doesn't do Christmas - no really, he doesn't. Marco, his overly-<strike>adorable</strike>excitable neighbour, loves Christmas. Cue Sasha, a few beers and a bet, and now Marco not only has to convince Jean to date him, but in a Christmas fashion.<br/>It's going to take more than a few fairy lights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bah Jeanbug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardustowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustowl/gifts).



> Weeeeeeeell this has stolen my heart COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY.  
> To filmingfemmefatale; _wow_ I loved both your prompts so much, but this one was just SO CUTE and I had loads of ideas within minutes (seriously, I filled up both sides of an A3 sheet brainstorming plot bunnies with half an hour). I didn't quite mean to write over 5k, but hey, what the hell, it's Christmas!  
>  Thanks to Bee for being an epic, if smut orientated, beta reader. You're great babe!  
> ([I have a writing/reading playlist if anyone wants that as well. 'Cause you know, whatever.](http://8tracks.com/archiegreen/bah-jeanbug))  
> I really hope you enjoy this filmingfemmefatale! (I had a fucking _ball_ writing it)
> 
> In which I am obnoxiously British and SO ARE JEAN AND MARCO AND THE REST because I can't write American AUs and besides, there are too many of them anyway. Marco is Welsh and Jean pretends to be posher than he is with all his tea drinking, the fucking chav.

Jean loved his flat - really, he did, no matter how much he complained about it to his sister. Despite the building not having heating past 8 o’clock in the morning until 6 at night, despite the fact that the people living below him had ritual morning sex followed by ritual morning screaming matches over the footie scores, and despite the leaking ceiling in the kitchen from the old man above him always overflowing his bath, Jean could call his tiny 3 room flat home. The bed was cosy, his sofa  _ was  _ admittedly falling apart but it was so covered in blankets that it didn’t matter and the T.V worked - he could sit with a cup of tea and do his homework and no-one would bother his Game of Thrones marathons. 

Of course, his hot neighbour helped. 

Jean lived in a block of flats in the shitty end of Trost, just off the A1 (so the rush hour traffic would wake him up if his alarm didn’t), which had 8 floors and 6 flats on each. His was on the 3rd floor, with a small balcony looking over yet more flats. The balcony conjoined with his by a low brick wall belonged to his neighbour, a young man a year older than Jean, whom he vaguely recognised from his university student union. Jean was more than a little in love with the man, who sat in a metal chair he’d somehow soldered to the balcony railing every morning to eat his breakfast in his pants. 

It had taken Jean 3 months to work up the courage to step out of his door when the man was outside as well, but he’d done it, and he and the man had struck up a conversation. But as Jean had expected, it hadn’t gone well; the man had jumped at Jean’s abrupt outburst of swear words at the cold of the tiles under his bare feet and sworn himself, then had laughed at Jean. 

At least Jean had learnt the man’s name in the process. Marco Bodt, owner of flat 3E, and gorgeous dork with a penchant for exuberance. 

Over the next 6 months, the two struck up a careful friendship over breakfast and tea at 7 in the morning, and learnt about each other in the process. 

Jean learnt that Marco loved reading and didn’t like to wear trousers if he could get away with it; he never brushed his hair and the parting was natural, as was the bed head; he danced around his flat blasting Corpse Corps on his Hi-Fi when he cleaned. He’d lived on a farm in Wales called Jinae until he was 16, then moved to Trost for the university, where he took a course in engineering and design.

Marco, for his part, learnt that his grumpy, anti-social neighbour from 3F, Jean, was older than he’d thought, much more adorable and much less of a punk: he grew plants and talked to them when he thought Marco wouldn’t hear him, and wandered around in a bright purple t-shirt he’d bought from some scouting weekend when he was 16; he had a tea addiction and a strange love for eating marmite directly out of the jar. He was studying horticulture, and when he started talking about ionised hydration systems for underground growth, his smile could light up even the darkest of caverns.

Marco also found out, after 6 months of talking and 35 days before Christmas, that Jean  _ didn’t like Christmas.  _ Marco would understand if his religion didn’t do Christmas, or he’d had a traumatic experience as a child which meant that he was scarred by Santa for life. But he wasn’t religious, and hadn’t been kidnapped by evil elves as a toddler, so Marco was confused. 

Jean let that fact slip when he caught Marco (in his ever present baggy boxers and hoodie) stringing up fairy lights around his door  _ in November.  _ Whilst singing Jingle Bells under his breath. Jean leant over their shared wall clasping his mug and snorted.

“Marco, man, it’s November. Tell me they aren’t fucking fairy lights.”

Marco jumped. “Jean! Don’t scare me like that.” He looked across to Jean, and then back up at the string of LEDs trailing down the glass. “And no, Jean. They’re not  _ just  _ fairy lights - they’re Christmas lights!”

There was a stunned silence between them, as Marco waited for a reaction. Jean just nodded slowly.

“Uh huh. So, you’re hanging up Christmas decorations in November. When Christmas is in December. Which is more than a whole month away.”

“35 days.” blurted Marco. Jean blinked and set his mug down. 

“What?”

“There’s 35 days until Christmas!” Marco let the lights fall and waltzed up to Jean, grabbing both of his hands in his own, much larger paws. “That’s not a long time!”

Jean flushed deeply from the heat coming off Marco. Their hands were wrapped around each other, Marco’s palms dry but cold against the backs of his own. He could feel the calluses from farm work over his knuckles, and wondered how they’d feel brushing lightly over his jaw line. 

Looking up briefly, Jean found himself staring directly into warm brown eyes and a face full of stars. His mouth dried out and he couldn’t even find his tongue in his head, let alone actually speak. Instead, he shook his head weakly.

Marco frowned, dropping Jean’s hands. Internally whining, Jean picked up his mug and tried to appear aloof. They were only holding hands. That could be totally platonic.

“Christmas is ages away - and it’s a stupid holiday anyway, why should it be dragged out for fucking months?”

Marco threw a hand over his heart and flung the other over his eyes, wailing dramatically.

“ _ What _ ? You don’t like Christmas? I am ashamed, my man, ashamed I tell you!”

“Yeah. It’s a waste of money.” Jean muttered. Marco turned back to Jean and pouted.

“Aw, Jean, you can’t not like Christmas! You’re kidding, right?” Jean shook his head, taking a sip of his tea so as not to succumb to the cuteness of the pout.

“Nope. I can’t stand it. Haven’t celebrated since I was, I don’t know, 16? Definitely haven’t decorated since then.”

Marco hopped into his chair and rested his elbows on his knees, expression blank. Wary of what he knew to be Marco’s “I’m planning shit and no-one can stop me” face, Jean perched onto his own bench, surrounded by his ladies. (Mary was a bit yellow around the pine needles, noted Jean - she’d need a water when he headed back inside.)

“Why don’t you like Christmas?” asked Marco, after a few minutes of silence. Jean rolled his eyes.

“It’s a fucking long list, Freckles, we could be here a while.”

Marco smiled softly and brushed a hand through his hair. “It’s a Saturday - we’ve literally got all day, idiot.”

Jean counted the points off on his fingers. “The music sucks, and is  _ exactly the same  _ every year. Decorations are tacky, and shopping for like, basic essentials becomes more of a nightmare than usual. And it’s so fucking expensive, because you’re expected to buy shit for every Tom, Dick and Harry you know, including that fucker from the secret Santa at work, and then you have to buy a load of food for all the extended family that you don’t even like and only ever  _ see  _ at Christmas. That’s also shitty, having to deal with family who are UKIP supporting overweight pieces of shit, especially that one aunt who thinks I should be murdered for daring to fancy girls and blokes and- wait  _ shit-  _ I said-  **_fuck-_ ** !” Jean brought his knees up to his chest and buried his face into them, feeling the burn in his cheeks and his fingers trembling where they tugged through the long hair not yet tamed with gel. He dug his nails into his scalp and flinched when he heard Marco move around on his balcony. What if- He hadn’t meant to say anything to Marco yet, hadn’t planned for this.

“Shit… shit, shit, bloody fucking bollocking SHIT!” He banged his forehead on the bones of his knees, the dull thump still painful through the thick material of his joggers. 

At Jean’s shout, there was silence on the two balconies. The cars still rumbled below them and planes still thundered above them, but neither man spoke and the noise around them made their silence all the quieter. Then, Jean heard scraping noises and a huffing grunt from Marco, followed by a thump much closer to Jean that he was expecting. Confused, he looked up, only to see a green hoodie engulfing his face as Marco pulled him standing into a rough hug. Jean froze for a second, then squeezed his arms tightly around Marco’s neck, fingers kneading at the soft, well-worn material of the hood.

“It’s okay, Jean,” murmured Marco, voice calm and low, as if Jean was a skittish animal. “It’s  _ okay, it’s fine,  _ I understand.”

“Thanks,” whispered Jean, “It’s… It’s not what you think, my family are okay with it, it- it’s fine, but… I haven’t. Not other than family; this area, I wasn’t sure if it was safe to...”

“Come out?” finished Marco, pushing Jean gently away, but still holding him by the shoulders. “I know I usually need a hug afterwards. Figured you might’ve needed one too.”

Jean thought that his heart might’ve just stopped in his chest.

“W-What did you say?” he stammered. 

“I said, I can guess how you’re feeling,” Marco smiled, gentle but with a nervous bite to his bottom lip. “I… I’m gay. Done a bit of coming out myself.”

No, Jean’s heart had  _ definitely  _ just stopped in his chest. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and Marco quickly shifted his hands from Jean’s shoulders back to his sides.

“Anyway!” Marco said, a touch too brightly. “I better finish hanging these lights up! Um, I’ll just. Climb back over.” He drummed his fingers against his hip-bones, then, with a jerky nod to Jean, clambered back over the wall. Jean couldn’t bring himself to stay outside any longer, and after rescuing his mug, slunk back inside his flat.

He slid down the glass when the door had clicked shut, leaving him sprawled across his floor, eyes closed and head tipped back.

“Well, that just fucking happened.”

  
  


8th December, Flat 5C.

 

“So have you like, even spoken to him since?” Sasha asked, leaning into Marco’s space and cocking her head sideways. Marco frowned, and tilted his hand from side to side.

“Um… Kind of? I avoided him for like a week, but then we both had breakfast outside again and just ended up talking about the  _ weather _ . We’re talking every day again, but…” He trailed off and sighed. Sasha matched it, and grabbed a beer from the pack beside her feet. She threw one at Marco, and then stretched back out across the sofa. He thanked her and drained half in one swallow. 

Mouth twisting into a sly smile, Sasha grinned, and waved her own can vaguely in the air towards Marco.

“No more unsubtle flirting then?” Sasha crowed, then pouted when Marco hit her shoulder lightly. “Ow, meanie! But I know what that feels like, jesus. Connie hasn’t spoken to me in, like, at least a fortnight. Since the thing with the ducks.”

Marco spluttered. “The ducks?! I thought you two got over that one.”

“Nope.” Sasha sipped her beer and blew her fringe out of her face. “He’s still being a lil’ bitch. But I’m not talking to him, so tell me about this guy! You said he doesn’t like Christmas, right? How does anyone  _ not  _ like Christmas! There’s so much food!”

Marco shrugged, and downed the rest of his beer. He crushed the can in one hand thoughtlessly as he spoke.

“I don’t know, but he really doesn’t. He’s the ultimate Scrooge.  _ And,  _ I don’t want to talk about Jean, so I’m going to talk about Connie! Seriously, why aren’t you together yet?”

Sasha snorted. “That won’t happen, not in a million fucking years.”

“Why not?”

Sasha sat upright slowly. “We don’t want to ruin what we have. We’ve been friends since we were tiny - I can’t lose him.”

Marco smiled a shark smile.

“How about we make a deal, Sash.”

Setting her beer back down, Sasha perked up, interested despite her misgivings.

“And what would this deal be, Mr Bodt? I thought you didn’t gamble.”

Marco held out one finger. “If  _ I _ can get a date with Jean with, you know, some sort of  _ Christmassy  _ theme,” He put up the next finger. “ _ You _ ask Connie out. Simple.”

“He’ll never do it.” Sasha muttered. 

“What, Jean’ll never do anything Christmassy?”

“No, Connie’ll never agree.”

“So you’ll do it?” Marco bit his lip and smiled. “Yeah, Sasha! Shake on it?”

The two shook hands and smiled. Both were a little strained. 

 

10th December. Flat 3F.

 

_ Snow is falling _ __  
_ All around me _ __  
_ Children playing _ __  
_ Having fun! _ __  
_ It’s the season _ __  
_ Of love and understanding _ _  
_ __ Merry Christmas everyone!

Jean grimaced and pushed his cushion harder over his ears. Marco had been playing non-stop Christmas music for two days from the balcony, and he was on the verge of murder, no matter how cute Marco looked dancing in his pants. The songs were tacky (and Jean wouldn’t admit it, but they were also annoyingly catchy - one from the day before had been circling his head for hours) and worse from their significant lack of sound quality. Marco was playing them through a portable speaker that Jean could’ve sworn belonged in the 80s.

“Marco!” he yelled, knowing the man could hear him through the glass of his balcony door. “Shut that shit the fuck off!”

**_You will get a sentimental feeling_ ** ****__  
**_when you hear_ ** ****__  
**_Voices singing “let’s be jolly!”_ ** ****__  
**_Deck the halls with boughs of holly_ ** ****__  
**_Rocking around the Christmas tree_ ** ****__  
**_Have a happy holiday_ ** **_  
_ ** ****_Everyone dancing merrily in the new old fashioned way!_

“Marco! I swear to God!” The music had just been turned up louder, and Jean couldn’t handle any more. He stood up and stormed outside, where Marco was perched on their conjoining wall, legs dangling onto his side, wearing a shit eating grin and- 

Well, Jean thought, not much else, to be honest. The man was only wearing a pair of thick jeans despite it only being a few degrees above freezing. It took Jean a few seconds before his brain re-awoke from the sight of abs and dark hair, but he folded his arms with a sigh when it did.

“Okay, first; what the fuck Marco, it’s like, zero degrees out here, and  _ I’m  _ freezing my bits off - go put a coat on, for fuck’s sake.” Jean reached over to Marco and pushed the centre of his chest lightly to move, him off the wall. “Then, turn the music off, fucking hell. This shit is painful - why is it all so cheerful?”

Marco laughed, but switched off the speaker. He reached out to Jean with a hand, but seemed to think better of himself and just smiled.

“I’ll go put a jumper on. Um-” he paused, and Jean was instantly curious when a light flush spread across his cheeks. “Do you want. Do you want to have a drink with me? I- I can make tea, we can drink it. I mean, of course we can drink it, but we can drink it together. Outside, if you want, you don’t have to come in or anything, but I just thought-” Jean quickly nodded, cutting off Marco’s flustered stuttering. 

“I’d like that. Thanks. I’ll just wait here. For you.” he added as an afterthought. Marco bit his lip, but his wide grin still burst through. When he turned around to duck inside, Jean caught Marco looking back at him, just for a second, before he opened the door. Jean stared down at his hands.

“Fuck, Mary,” he muttered to his potted tree. “I’m deep in shit this time, aren’t I?”    

He fell down onto his bench and licked his lips, feeling the cold dissipate slightly as he moved out of the breeze. He could hear Marco moving around inside his flat from the open doors, and blushed when he made out some of the words Marco was saying.

“ _ Yes! _ ” being the most prominent.

“What do I do, Mary?" whined Jean. “He's so goddamn sweet I swear he's not even real. Urgh, and his  _ abs _ , like fucking hell, I just want to lick them all over.”   
  
At the sound of Marco's door slamming shut, Jean looked up quickly. Marco was stood with his back to the door, rooted to the spot with his hand clenched tightly around the door handle. He’d put on a red woollen jumper which dwarfed even his large frame, and Jean wanted to wrap his fingers in the soft material. The elbows were patched over and the hem was trailing strings which hung down Marco’s thighs. Jean stood back up and leant on the wall, watching Marco’s still figure with a strangled feeling of dread.  _ What if he’d heard…? _

“Um, Marco? Are you okay?” he spoke over the lump of anxiety resting heavy in his throat, making his voice ragged and hoarse.

Marco spun around with a sunshine smile plastered across his face and nodded. 

“Yeah, I’m fine! Totally fine!” His face was a little flushed, and his hair was tousled from where he’d hastily pulled the jumper over his head. Jean rested one hand on his jaw, elbow propped up against the concrete wall.

“Did you get the tea?” he asked.

Marco’s eyes widened. “Right! Yeah. Okay. Um, you take your tea black right? Do you have sugar?” Jean side-eyed Marco, and shook his head.

“Nope, it’s too sweet if you do that. I like the taste when it’s bitter.”

Marco pulled a face, sticking out his tongue in disgust.

“Ew, no! I have milk and sugar in mine. I don’t like bitter stuff.

Jean pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing. Marco looked at him in confusion.

“What?”

Jean burst into laughter, and only became louder when Marco cocked his head and pouted.

“ _ What _ ? I don’t see what’s funny…?” 

“Sorry! It’s just, I’m 12 years old at heart. Think like a 12 year old.” Jean raised both eyebrows, biting down his chuckles and grinned widely when Marco groaned in realisation.

“ _ Ew _ , Jean, you’re disgusting.”

“Go make tea, Freckles.”

Marco headed back inside, but glanced back at Jean as he had done before. Jean wiggled his fingers in a little wave, before realising what he was doing and the sappy expression spreading across his face and snapped his arm back down to his side. 

He watched Marco’s shadow bustle around inside the kitchen and waited for his friend to return.  

 

13th December, Flat 3E

 

Soft blue light brightened over Jean’s eyelids as he awoke, and he groaned, pulling his thick duvet over the top of his head and pushing his face into his pillow. He screwed his eyes shut against the pervading light, but when he saw splashes of colour dancing in his vision, he swore and let his eyelashes flutter open. The warmth of the duvet soon became too much, and he could feel himself overheating.

Throwing back his covers, Jean sleepily groped around the floor for some boxers, and chucked on the first pair he found. He padded into his kitchen and filled the kettle on muscle memory, listening to the hiss and bubble absently. The voice singing from next door was sweet but strong, and he found himself humming along to the tune despite not being able to hear the words themselves. Staring at the fridge in front of him, he wondered how many times he'd missed Marco's singing before.

Jean stood bolt upright and stared at the wall separating his kitchen from Marco’s. Marco was singing? After a moment’s thought, he leant an ear on the wall.

“- _ don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need, and I don’t care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree _ -”

Marco’s voice was rich and bright, although muffled behind the plaster and paint, and Jean’s heart fluttered a little when he recognised the words.

The whistle from the kettle scared Jean and he jumped, knocking over the mug he’d laid out earlier onto the floor. It shattered with a crash that rung in Jean’s ears. A shard sliced Jean’s bare feet and he swore loudly, clutching the counter-top with white knuckles, and breathed hard through his nose to stop himself from screaming (although it would of course be a very manly scream).

“Jean?” Marco’s concerned voice echoed through the wall, “Are you okay? I heard a crash.”

Jean gritted his teeth, then raised his voice.

“I dropped a mug, and a bit cut my foot. I’m okay. I think.”

Looking down at his foot gingerly, Jean swore again. The cut was deeper than he’d thought, and was bleeding profusely.

“I know first aid, I’m coming over” Jean’s head snapped up.

“No, no, you don’t need to, I’m fine-”

Marco’s voice was low, placating. “I’m coming anyway. It’s what friends do, yeah?” 

Jean sighed, then relented.

“Fine. Balcony door’s open.” he called.

“Okay, be right there.”

Jean could hear Marco’s footsteps thudding past his wall, and then from outside his balcony door. He turned around carefully, trying not to move his foot too much, and yelled out to Marco when he saw him through the glass.

“I’m in the kitchen.”

Marco gently pulled the doors open and jogged over to Jean. Realising that he was, quite literally, only in his pants, Jean flushed and started apologising, gesturing to his chest as he did so.

“Look, I’m sorry, it’s early, I, I assumed-”

“No, it’s fine, I’m… I’m not fussed. I brought bandages?” Marco was flushed, wearing a hoodie and joggers over pink socks, and he brandished a roll of bandages in Jean’s face. Jean sighed and pushed a lock of bedhead hair out of his face.

“Do you want me to sit down or something?”

Marco thought for a second, then nodded slowly.

“I was an Explorer scout a few years ago, but it’s been a while since I earned my first aid badge.” he explained, rubbing his free hand across the back of his neck. “I need to elevate your foot.”

“Okay, I’ll sit on the sofa. I can put my foot on the table.” Jean hobbled over the sofa, ignoring Marco’s attempts to help him walk, and eased himself onto the cushions. He heard Marco turn back quickly into the kitchen, then the sound of running water. Marco was wetting a cloth under the tap, and he smiled at Jean when he realised that Jean was watching.

“I need to clean the cut,” Marco explained, “Or it could get infected.”

Marco pushed his way past the table with the cloth and gently lifted Jean’s injured foot up, inspecting it with a cool gaze. Jean flinched away from the feeling of Marco’s warm fingers and the damp material on the sensitive sole of his foot, and Marco looked up at his face curiously. 

“Jean?” he asked slowly. “Are you ticklish?” Jean focused pointedly on the ceiling and nodded, lips pursed. Marco grinned, but just carried on wiping away the blood from Jean’s wound, not saying a word.

It only took a minute for Marco to bandage his cut, wrapping the cloth around the ball of his foot with the careful precision of the well-practised. 

“You’re good at this,” Jean remarked, “Done it before?” 

Marco nodded, still concentrating on tying off the bandage neatly.

“Mm hmm.” he confirmed, “Once or twice. My pack went away a lot, so we all had to know how to do first aid. Campfires with a bunch of teenagers get rowdy.”

He patted Jean’s knee twice and smiled at him.

“All done. You might not want to stand on that any time soon though - it’s pretty deep, and long. You’re really unlucky.” Marco thought for a second, then pushed Jean’s uninjured leg onto the floor, and shuffled into the space left behind. He started to lean into Jean, eyes wide and blown dark.

Jean suddenly couldn’t breathe. Marco’s face was so close to his own, and he could practically count every freckle dusting his cheeks and forehead, and Marco’s eyelashes were fluttering shut. 

His breath came in tiny, hitched movements and Jean wanted to close his eyes too, but as much as he wanted to just  _ feel,  _ he couldn’t look away from the sight of the pale veins on Marco’s eyelids and the bow of his lips.

Then the doorbell rang, and Marco jumped, falling over into the table.

“Shit,” Jean muttered, and he glanced at Marco, who appeared just as star-struck as himself. “Can you…?”

Marco nodded in a quick, jerky movement, climbing to his feet on shaking legs. Even his first few steps were a little wobbly, but he regained his footing and jogged to the door. When he opened it, a young man stood holding a clipboard, wearing overalls and a fake, wide smile.

“Hi, you must be Mr. Demens? I’m here to see about a faulty boiler?”

Marco frowned, and after a shared shrug with Jean, shook his head at the man.

“Nah, no Mr. Demons lives here. I think a guy lives upstairs with that name though, in 4F.”

The man clapped a hand over his mouth and then backed out the room slowly, waving his clipboard around anxiously and apologising.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you - I’ll leave you two alone now! I am truly sorry. Sorry.”

Marco shut the door in the man’s face and Jean realised that a deep flush had worked its way down Marco’s neck, hiding his freckles. 

“Marco?” he asked, drawing out his name in question. “You okay?”

Marco bit his lip and turned away, running a hand through his hair. His other hand played around the door handle.

“I’m going to go,” blurted Marco. “Um - I hope your bandage stays on okay.” 

Sitting up, Jean ignored the pang of pain which shot through his leg and held out a shaking hand.

“Please, don’t go.” he murmured, sure that despite the low tone of his voice Marco could hear every word. “You don’t have to.”

Jean didn’t want Marco to go back to his flat alone. He wanted him to sit on his balcony wall and drink tea with him and laugh over the crap playing on telly on a Saturday night; he wanted to know who Marco thought would win I’m A Celebrity and whether he thought 9 or 10 was the best Doctor, or if he liked films better than T.V and if so, had he ever seen Cabin in the Woods?

But Marco had already shaken his head, cheeks still red, and was opening the door with his keys in his hand. 

“Bye, Jean.” he squeaked, voice strained and more than a little higher than usual. The door slammed shut behind his hastily retreating figure, and Jean heard Marco swear at the bang.

Jean flicked the TV on. He might as well catch the morning news before he grabbed a lift from Eren to their shared biology class.

  
  


15th December, Trost Garden Centre and Plant Nursery

 

Row upon row of green plants in black plastic pots filled the room, which smelled of soil and flower fragrances. The sharp smell of paint filtered through from the arts section just around the corner, but Jean buried himself into the corner of the ferns, hidden amongst the tall leaves. He had his hood pulled low over his face and was staring intensely at his phone. 

“Viscum album,” he muttered, drumming his fingers over his jeans, “Viscum album, ilex aquifolium. That should do, right?”

Standing up straight, he shoved his phone into his pocket and stalked off to the row of plants, running his fingers across the soft leaves and the damp soil. He breathed in the smell of earth and water and smiled, picking up a pot every now and again just because he  _ could  _ and he  _ wanted to. _

Even the blaring Christmas music coming through the tinny, cheap speakers couldn’t ruin this feeling for him, and he just stuck his earbuds in, listening to the thrum of guitars and the thrash of drums instead.

When he came across the red and white berries he was searching for, he stuffed as many plants into his basket as he could feasibly fit, then crammed a few into his overcoat pockets - it was his gardening coat, which could probably hide a child, or a small island.

The woman on the till looked at Jean’s basket like he was a little bit bonkers and a little bit of a sappy idiot, but smiled and simpered at him nevertheless. Jean ignored the way she scoped out his butt when he bent over to scoop up the soil he’d spilt onto the floor, and headed for the exit thinking about what on Earth he was doing, and how the fuck this  _ thing  _ he had planned was going to work. Marco owed him big time when this was over - if the man was still talking to him. 

 

17th December, Flat 3E

 

Covered in a light dusting of flour, Marco shimmied and twirled around his kitchen space, mixing eggs and sugar and the flour that wasn’t all over his body to the beat of the music blaring from his radio. He hummed along to the words he didn’t know and belted out the lyrics he did, using the wooden spoon as a sticky microphone. 

“ _ You’re handsome, you’re pretty, Queen of New York city, when the band finished playing they howled out for more _ -” Marco allowed his accent to thicken as he sang, and was startled to realise how different he sounded now, even after only a few years in the city. He sounded a lot less like a Welsh farm boy now, and wondered if Jean knew any Welsh.

A loud  **ding** came from the oven and Marco grinned, setting the bowl onto the counter and opening the oven door with a flourish. The smell of ginger filled the air and he breathed deeply, pleased that none of this batch had burnt. 

“They’re perfect!” he crowed, and set the tray next to the bowl before he burnt his fingers. 

He picked up the spoon and crooned into it, leaning on his counter and staring happily into his reflection in the microwave, picturing Jean’s face when he saw what Marco had done for him. 

“ _ And the bells are ringing out, for Christmas day... _ ”

 

18th December, Flat 3F

 

Jean, balanced on precarious tiptoes on the balcony wall, stretched as high as he could reach with his gloved hands clutching a handful of plants. He was careful not to crush the delicate berries, or to prick himself on the spined leaves, and just as he managed to hook the intertwined stems over the hanging basket attached to a frame on his wall he heard Marco open his balcony door.

“Shit!” he squeaked, and turned around to face Marco, shielding the basket with his body. “Marco! Marco. Hi.” Marco looked up at him with a bemused expression and laughed.

“Hello, Jean. What are you  _ wearing? _ You look like my grandad in that thing, and he’s about 106 and still farming sheep.”

Jean frowned and patted the pockets of his green overcoat fondly. 

“It’s my gardening coat! And I don’t care what I look like, it’s designed to get filthy when I’m working, not as a fashion statement.” Jean heard tinny music coming from inside Marco’s flat and dug his hands into his pockets. “‘S that more fucking Christmas music? I swear to God, Marco, what the hell is with you and Christmas?”

Grinning sheepishly, Marco nodded. 

“It’s not the normal crap though.” Marco tried to reason, but Jean just raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to explain. “It’s more rocky! You like that sort of thing, right? I heard you play My Chem through the walls a few weeks ago - I mean, I’m not creepy or anything, but the G chord head jerk is kind of a conditioned response for me since my fanboy 16 year old self-” He stopped talking when he realised that Jean was laughing, wiping his eyes with muddy fingers free of tears of mirth. “What?” he pouted, and he crossed his arms when Jean just laughed harder. “If this is you being immature again, I swear I’ll kick your ass from here to-”

“No, no,” wheezed Jean, “No. I was just the biggest fucking MCR for like, 6 years and I know exactly what you mean - I can’t hear anything with a G chord and not pay instant attention. It’s like a dog-whistle for emo kids.”

Marco’s face lit up, and he leant on the wall, looking directly up at Jean. Jean felt his face flush a little at the positioning.

“I knew it! Stay here a sec, lemme go grab a thing.”

Marco darted inside, and Jean called a sarcastic “I’ll just leap off the balcony, will I, with my so many places to go to!” after him. A middle finger waved at him behind from the door frame and Jean rolled his eyes. Whilst Marco had gone, he quickly finished twisting the plant stems around the basket, then turned it around so the plants were hidden. He  leant against the wall in what he hoped was a casual pose, watching the clouds drift across the grey sky.

Marco returned with an armful of wires, his portable speaker with a plastic bag balanced on top and a loud “Ta daaah!”. Clicking his tongue, Jean gestured to the speaker.

“That thing is  _ the spawn of the devil. _ How old is it? Stoneage? The sound quality is  _ terrible. _ ” 

(Jean thought he might be terribly, terribly weak to Marco’s pouting.)

“Fine, so it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard, but seriously, it’s still fucking awful. Anyway, what did you want to show me?”

Marco dumped the wires and plastic bag on the floor unceremoniously, but laid the speaker down as if it were made of gold. His grin was back in full force, but Jean thought that the term ‘smirk’ might fit better. 

Speaker plugged into a series of tangled leads and cords, Marco drew a CD case out of his pocket and looked up at Jean, who snorted.

“I’ve got to drag you out of the 90s, shit Marco. CDs, really?”

(He was  _ definitely  _ weak to the pouting.)

“Just listen, okay? You might actually like it!”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll reserve scathing judgement until afterwards.”

The music started playing, and Jean wasn’t particularly impressed. There were far too many bells and jingling noises for it not to be a Christmas song. 

“It’s not the worst thing,” Jean conceded, when it was over, “But no. I still don’t like Christmas, just because of one song which wasn’t even that good.”

Marco pressed ‘next’ without speaking, and raised an eyebrow when Jean startled at the screech of electric guitars. 

“MCR?” asked Jean incredulously, “Really? An MCR cover of All I Want for Christmas Is You?”

Marco grinned, and climbed to his feet. He danced over to Jean with a glint in his eyes, and Jean shook his head and hands wildly when he realised what Marco intended to do. 

“No, no, I’m not dancing- Marc-Oh!” Marco dragged Jean down and onto his balcony by the hands, and set about swinging him around and jumping up and down. Jean let himself be moved, and eventually fell into a rhythm, dancing and (not that he’d admit it) singing along with Marco and the CD. 

When the track finished, Marco laughed breathlessly and let go of one of Jean’s hands to wipe his hair out of his face where it had fallen during their headbanging session. Jean hadn’t realised they were still holding hands, but didn’t let go, instead just letting their joined hands fall to his side. 

“That was good, yeah?” Marco asked, “Come on, admit it, it was fun.”

“I guess.” Jean said. Marco stilled for a moment, then let his hand fall onto Jean’s shoulder.

“I may have, you know, skipped forward a bit. The beginning is pretty slow, and I didn’t want you to stop it before it got good.” Jean sighed, shaking his head slowly.

“ _ I still don’t like Christmas _ \- one song isn’t going to do anything, I told you, you idiot.” 

All of a sudden, Marco let go of Jean and scrabbled around amongst the wires, leaving Jean feeling colder than he’d realised he would be. When he stood up again, he was clutching the plastic bag in a shaky fist, biting his lip nervously. 

“I. I made you something.” he stammered. “I hope you’re not allergic to anything.”

“Nah, I’ll eat anything,” Jean claimed, then paused. “Except prawns. They’re gross.”

Marco chuckled. Handing Jean the bag, he took a step back to perch on his wall, watching Jean intently. 

“No prawns, so you’re in luck.”

The bag was light, and the items inside about the size of Jean’s hand. He tore open the top of the bag with his fingernails, and then looked up at Marco. 

“Really?” he asked. Marco nodded slowly. 

“Yup,” he drawled, “Gingerbread men are the best thing about Christmas, after dancing in your pants to bad Christmas music.”

Jean hesitantly broke a piece off one of the gingerbread men, and popped it in his mouth. It was spicy, soft and warm and Jean groaned aloud.

“This is gorgeous,” he said, “How? What wizardry is this?”

Marco blushed furiously, and flapped a hand in front of his face. 

“My mam’s a good baker - she taught me and my brothers to cook because she thinks all people should be able to feed themselves, not just girls. It’s not that hard, not really.”

“You have a gift, dude, fuck.” Jean reached past Marco over the wall and dropped the bag onto the bench. Marco looked up at him and opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped, jaw agape.

“What…?” asked Jean, frowning. “Have I got something on my face? Crumbs?”

Marco said nothing, just started to smile widely, the flush on his cheeks from earlier rising darkly again. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but Jean still heard the sharp intake of breath, then the huff of an astonished laugh.

“Marco?” Jean waved his hand in front of Marco’s face, and he dropped his hand back into his lap, although his eyes flickered between Jean’s own hazel eyes and whatever had struck him speechless. 

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured, “You…”

Jean followed his line of sight, and blanched when he saw that his basket had swung back to face forward, displaying his little decoration to Marco.

“I can explain-” Jean started, but he was cut off when Marco stood up and bodily dragged him up onto the wall with him. The concrete wall was narrow, but sturdy, and Jean could fit both feet side by side fairly comfortably. 

Slowly taking steps back, Marco pulled Jean forwards by his wrists, smile blinding and warm. When Marco’s back hit the wall, he stopped, flicking a glance up at the basket above their heads. 

“You hung  _ mistletoe _ ,” Marco whispered, glee colouring his words. “Fucking  _ mistletoe. _ You planned this! And you say you don’t do Christmas.”

Jean reached up to run a finger, still gloved, across the little white berries. “Maybe this part isn’t so bad.” He licked his lips and watched as Marco laid gentle hands on his waist, pulling him into the taller man’s space. 

“You know what we’ve got to do now.” said Marco. It wasn’t a question, and Jean’s cocky smirk was mimicked by Marco. He leant up into Marco’s face, eyes darting over each freckle, over his eyebrows and the reflection of his own eyes in Marco’s darker ones.

“You gonna kiss me or what? Thought  _ you  _ were the one into this Christmassy shit.” Jean whispered. 

Marco blew a long breath out and laughed. 

“You put it here, you do it.”

“Why are we even arguing about this?”

“Don’t kno- Mpphhf!”

Jean wound his fingers hard into Marco’s hair, little fingers curling around the soft hair at his nape and grinned into the kiss he’d crushed into Marco’s mouth.

Marco squeaked, then relaxed his grip on Jean’s hips and moved back against Jean, coaxing the kiss into something softer. Jean knew his blush was hot against Marco’s cheeks, could feel the heat rising, but he brushed his lips against Marco’s again and again, because Marco was red and flustered and couldn’t quite breathe properly either.

Their lips fit together like puzzle pieces, and Jean nipped at Marco’s top lip, loving the giving of the skin beneath his teeth and the sigh that rattled up from Marco’s ribs.

Eventually, Marco pulled away, and Jean did  _ not  _ whine from the sudden lack of warmth. But he kept close to Jean, lips only a scarce inch from his own. 

“Can we take this inside?” he said, voice hushed and thick, “Only, I can’t feel my ears, and I really want to carry on kissing you.”

Jean laughed, and tugged on the ends of Marco’s hair playfully. 

“Cool. My place or yours?”

Pointing in the vague direction of Jean’s small army of plants and pots, Marco shrugged.

“Mine. I don’t want to try and get through there, there’s way too many and I’d break something tripping over a pot.”

Gasping in mock indignation, Jean called over to his balcony.

“Don’t listen to the nasty man, girls, I love you all.”

A splutter of laughter had Jean swatting Marco on the leg.

“Don’t be a dick, Freckles, or no more kisses.”

“No more kisses? Ever?”

“Nope. None.”

“I’ll be nice to your ladies, Jean.”

“Good.” Jean pecked a quick kiss onto Marco’s lips, and then led him inside. “I think you and me are going to get along fucking wonderfully.”

  
  


A few hours later, 18th December, Flat 3F

 

Winding his fingers around the longer hair on top of Jean’s head, Marco suddenly remembered why he’d been plaguing Jean with Christmas music in the first place.

“Jean,” he called, “Jean, can you shuffle over a sec? I need to find my phone.”

There was a grunt in reply, but Jean turned over in the duvet, curling himself into a ball and kicking Marco in the shin.

Marco crawled out of bed, and started searching the floor for his phone. When he found it, he had 4 messages from Sasha.

From: Sash

**M dude connie wants me to help him buy a new binder**

**hes asking me what colour suits him blue or green**

**ok he went for the red but what if i have to help him put it on i dont think i can handle that**

**anyway how you doing with the grump**

Marco rolled his eyes and sat back down on the bed. He tapped out a response with one hand, the other back in Jean’s hair.

From: Marco

**You’ll handle it fine, you’ve done it before, stop panicking**

**/Jean/ is fine, and I think we’re dating now?**

**bUT more importantly**

**He kissed me under the mistletoe so I win our bet. You have to ask Connie out**

From: Sasha

**yeah yeah whatever sure**

**what really??????????**

**shit**

**fine fine i’ll do it but i WILL blame you if this gets fucked up**

From: Marco

**It’ll be fine Sash I swear**

 

2 hours later, Marco’s phone buzzed with a reply. He didn’t notice, too busy cooking lunch with Jean, but when he picked it up later he crowed in triumph, startling Jean.

From: Sasha

**3 words bodt 3 fucking words**

**he**

**said**

**yes**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the bad title - I blame my beta


End file.
